


The King That Rises

by Marmalade_Chapstick635



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cersi is Screwed, Davos is Alive, F/M, Game Change, R plus L equals J, Samwell the Maester, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6056140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmalade_Chapstick635/pseuds/Marmalade_Chapstick635
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jon Snow awakes naked, and warm in the snow soaked ashes of his funeral pyre, he knows that his sisters are alive, and he has the taste of blood lingering in his mouth.<br/>As Jon focuses on the mounting war with the Others, he can't help but make a few side quests to reclaim what is his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ice that burns

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have no rights to any of this. ASOIAF belongs to George R.R. Martin, the TV show to HBO, and this story was inspired by other AO3 writers in many different ways. There was a rebirth fic. that I read many months ago, but I cannot remember which it was (hasn't been updated in a long time). so if this reminds you of something else, the any non-Martin, non-HBO credit goes to that writer!
> 
> This story is mostly following the plot of the books, but the characters from the TV series have been seared into my brain so it is an admixture.
> 
> I just could not wait to see what would happen when Jon was resurrected. I know it will be a game changer!

Jon  
As he lay in the snow, and felt the warmth spilling out of him, the shock of betrayal seemed to slip away. He thought of his father, and his brothers: Rob, Bran and Rickon. He thought that he should be glad that he will be able to join them soon, and yet he still wasn’t ready. Even when he thought of Ygritte, his beloved long dead, he still could not resign himself to this fate. All that was left to be done rang in his mind, the realm would freeze and turn as black as the night, he knew it was so, he could feel it as the cold began to settle into him. 

He thought of all those he might live for; of Arya, her grey stark eyes and her rebellious smile. 

He thought of Sansa and the sweet smile she reserved for him before she learned what a bastard was. 

He thought of Samwell, and little Sam. 

And he thought of ghost. 

The black night sky became a curtain upon which he saw their faces, as he remembered them. He thought of how he wished they were alive, that they were safe, that he could save them from the long night, but the cold was overtaking him now. He had always thought himself a man of winter, but now the cold burned. 

 

The Cat  
He seemed disoriented, somehow the light was too bright. 

He lay on large carved steps and watched as he saw a small, solemn human-kitten with dark brown hair, climbed the steps toward him. He thought it odd that a kitten was out so late, especially a female one so small. Only the dangerous ones seemed to be out at this time of night. She paused on the steps and opened her mouth as if to shoo him away…as she usually did? He was not sure. Everything was muddled. As he tried to collect himself the girl snuck up on him unheard. A small heart-shaped face was leveled with his, grey eyes probing him, her mouth opened as if to say a word, but waited. 

The look in those eyes terrified him, it was cold and harsh, but somehow familiar. That face, there was another like it—a blue eyed girl—and then he felt himself slipping away.

 

The Mockingbird  
She rustled in her cage tonight, suddenly awoken. 

She did not like it here, this cage, and these people. She squawked and squawked, trying to wake the girl who kept her. The one who fed her well, and sang every once and a while. She could not could stand to be left in here. The girl rustled in the large nest where she slept, and she squawked even louder—memories of the girl disturbing her even more than being caged.  
“Shhhh.” The girl said, pressing a finger to her lips. Her blue eyes tired, but warm, a long black braid hanging over her shoulder. “You mustn’t, you’ll wake the whole castle, and Peter would not like that” She said gently, in the voice she saved for her, and the little lord.  
The bird flapped in her cage but squawked no longer. The girl cocked her head at this behavior.  
“What’s the matter my love? You hate being caged as much as I do?” She leaned closer to the bird, in the cage, not close enough to get pecked at, but closer. “When I was first trapped in Kings Landing, I felt as you do—that I wanted to escape that cage, that bloody hateful cage…. To go home, to Mother, to Robb and Brann and Rickon… To Arya…”  
The bird stopped flapping at this, she knew those names, but somehow none of it fit. They were not here in this castle, where the little man with the small black beard and the crooked smile had brought her after her capture near the clear river.

“After I knew that they were all dead I dreamed I might even steel away to the Wall and find Jon… just to be with my own blood. But once I escaped my cage I found myself inside another.” 

Blue eyes fixed on the bird, she seemed surprised now at her admission, and the bird’s quiet. 

She unlocked the cage door and stuck a finger in for the bird to climb on, trying to will her into submission. It was an odd feeling, the girl trying to impose her will on her again. This was how they trained, but this time she did not bend. She chose the finger out of curiosity rather than coercion. 

“I should let you go…” The girl said gently, running a soft finger across her plumage, “but if you leave me, then I will truly have to be Alayne with everyone,” She said softly.  
She had considered taking flight and crashing into a window, seeing if she could open it with the force of her body, and be free, but the girl made her sad. She had always been nice, even if she nipped at the tendrils of her mind.  
“I wonder if he is well,” She whispered in the dark, looking intently at the bird. “The only family I have left in the world. I wish I could see him now, it would be so sweet to hug him… Although maybe he would treat me like the bastard I am now.” She whispered aloud, as if the man with the pointy beard might hear her now, in the dead of night. “Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter…” She says in a soft sigh, “to hold him to my chest like when we were young… to see Jon again-“ but then everything was black.

 

Ghost  
He had been stalking those men, the ones he smelled on Jon’s body, and he’d made short work of two of them already. He had not even eaten their flesh as hungry as he was, because they were too low.  
The sky was slowly starting to light, and he wanted to get to the last one before the sun rose, before the yard was full of them, he had to have the ring leader. That tall, ugly, spiteful man who always threw hostility at Jon. Ghost padded up the turret and into the castle silently. The tall man was in the kitchens, he was drinking something red and smiling, but when he looked into Ghosts eyes, he screamed.  
He returned to the yard, covered in blood, unsatisfied with the nights killing. He had dragged the bodies from the castle and out into the snow. He did not know why, he never dragged his prey before like some shadow cat, but it had seemed important. He smelled his master still in this place, not just his blood, but his presence, and it saddened him. If only he had been there in time, if only he had not found his master cold and unmoving. He returned to the body of the black haired man in the snow, his master, and he laid at his side. The blood had frozen into the snow, his hair and face frosting over. His eyes a deep purple. He did not smell of death yet, not like the walkers, he still smelled of leather, and man musk. Smelled like home. Jon’s body froze so quickly that he almost smelled alive. Soon the men would come and burn him, so he would watch over him in death, this is all he has left here. And then he would find his brothers, and leave the stench of these black men behind. 

It seemed that he had slept, because he was disoriented when he found the men surrounding them. They looked at him fearfully, at first thinking that he might have harmed Jon, he knew. So he backed up with a snarl, and when they saw no bites on his body the tensions eased, ever so slightly.  
He took to the wolf’s wood, before they decided to chase him off and watched all morning as the piled a great many logs on a large, neat pile of wood. Some grumbled about the work, but others did it solemnly. Sadly. Those ones had been his friends. By mid-day they brought Jon’s body to the top of the pile, with his sword placed neatly on his chest. And then he was standing at the bottom, staring up at his lost friend. The men had jumped aside, making room for the bloodstained wolf. He focused on his master, but when he saw the body he felt like it was his own.  
He had eaten the heart of that last man, of the leader, but still it did not fill the emptiness inside him. As he watched them light the flames below his master, his friend, he wished for him to live. He wished, as if willing could make something come to be, as the flames jumped up the pile of sticks and surrounded Jon’s body. The fire licked at his hair and his clothes, and finally they caught. He watched as the fire grew large, and covered his whole body, but it did not smell of man flesh. He wished for Jon again, for him to live, and be at his side—and suddenly he felt alone as the fire cracked.  
When the fire began to burn down, he saw the body, lying there, naked and hairless, sword still lying against his chest. It was bright red with heat and the men were just standing and watching, their mouths agape. He padded toward the body that still smelled like his master, and nuzzled his hand. He felt a twitch.

 

Jon  
His mind swirled; fresh with the images of Arya glowering down at him, and Sansa with black hair, longing to see him again.  
Fresh with the taste of Sir Alister’s flesh, blood, and heart—it made him want to retch, but in his dream he had wanted it. He felt Ghost nuzzling his hand and stirred. He was thinking that he did not know when he had gone to sleep, to dream those dreams, and how his quarters had stayed warm through sunrise, when his betrayal came back to him. The cold knives in the dark, slipping into his ribs, his gut and his back, bleeding out into the snow.  
He opened his eyes and the sky was bright, Ghost leaned over him, licking at his face now. He could not understand how he could be outside, and so warm. As he sat up he realized that all of the Nights Watch stood circled around him, apprehensive. 

He rubbed his hands together, as if to check if they were frost-bitten, but they were warm and nimble, even without his gloves. Realizing that he was naked, yet warm in the snow he reached to scratch his beard but only found a smooth chin. 

Surveying the courtyard he realized that he did not see Sir Alister, or Boen Marsh, or any of those who had harmed him. He looked at Ghost, blood staining his fur, and again had to fight the urge to retch. Not a dream? He thought balefully. And then thought back on his dreams of the girls.  
As if to call his attention to them, the men shuffled. No one had said a word. They were watching him with a horror he thought had only been reserved for the cold undead. But he was warm… Thormond was standing amongst the crowed, but seemed less shocked than most of the lookers on. He at least had the makings of a smirk. He at least, was happy to see him alive.  
Jeyne Poole stood near him, her mouth agape, focused keenly on his nakedness in a decidedly unladylike way. It did not bother him as much as it might have once. Having been murdered puts things into perspective.

“Jon…?” Dolorous Edd finally said, breaking the silence. 

“Yes?” Jon said solemnly, he thought he would be hoarse, that he would feel weak, but his voice came out strong.

“Are you a Wight? Because you should have burned properly if you were…” he said trying to crack a small smile.

“I’m not a Wight,” Jon said scratching his smooth, smooth chin. “I’m too warm to be a Wight.” He stated, standing up and looking upon his men. Are they still your men?

“Do you know what happened?” Edd asked tentatively.

“I… Alister lured me into the yard, and they stabbed me, fifteen times that I could count, and I bled and died.”

“Well yeah, but after that…” Edd said cheekily.

“Do you know who it was that did for you?” Sir Davos asked, he had not noticed him there before.

“They’re all dead.” He said simply, patting Ghost on the head and nudging him to turn towards Seaworth. 

“And you’re alive,” Davos said with awe in his voice. “The fire engulfed you, yet still you remain whole…”

“Except for my hair…” Jon said with a small frown.

“Who was your mother, Snow? A fire spirit?” Thormond jested, trying to ease a tense situation.

“Or a dragon…” Seaworth said softly, the men rustling about and muttering among themselves.

“There were no female dragons when I was born, none old enough to have a child,” Jon said, motioning for Edd to give him his furs, to cover himself rather than for the warmth. He wrapped the wolf skin around himself, covering his manhood, it seemed the temperature had not changed, he was still warm.

“Aye, but there was a King, and Prince.”


	2. Growing Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos and Jon go to Dragonstone for dragon glass.   
> Jon wants answers, but is only disturbed by himself.

Davos

Seeing the Lord Commander come back to life seemed to invigorate his men, after the shock wore off. It had taken all of Davos’ cunning to convince the men not to tell Melisandre about what had happened to Lord Snow. He misliked the thought of what she would do. He was not sure if she would try to corrupt him as she had Stannis, or kill him on Stannis’ behalf when he returned. And there was still much planning left to be done. 

Though he had died and returned, the men still accepted him as their leader. Davos assumed this was because they were in such a dire position, as well as the circumstances of his rebirth. There was no one else suited to lead them, no one else that the wildlings would follow, and no one else that might be able to secure the aid needed from the seven kingdoms.

They needed the dragon glass from Dragonstone, and now the Lord Commander had a reason to take part in the mission himself.

The idea of a true heir to the Targaryen Kings had shocked Davos no more than having received the reproach of the Mother at the death of his sons; he saw this as a sign. If he was to fight the work that Melisandre sought to do, then it would be through supporting Snow in as much secret as he could maintain so that the Watch might fend off the dark. Even without Stannis. 

Davos did not want to be disloyal to his King, but as he had watched Stannis burn who he had thought was the Wildling King despite all of the objections, his King had seemed a queer creature. And queerer still as the set off to face the Boltons. They had not yet heard from Stannis’ forces who were camped out in the building storm, but Davos knew it was only a matter of time before the Bastard came for his little wife.

The men had noted how she clung to the Lord Commander’s side, but when one man suggested he might be breaking his vows, the large dull man had reminded them that his vows were fulfilled when his watch had ended.

The lord commander had demanded that they leave immediately for Dragonstone, but the ships taken to Hardhome still needed a few days of repair. 

As he waited, before the journey back to Grey Guard, the boy paced back and forth no matter where he was. He was readying Edd and the Giantsbane to take care of the wall in his stead. They were to continue to repairing the wall and to send ravens to Oldtown, the Earie and gods knows where. In some ways, he did not seem much changed from before, the boy. But then there was a strength in his will that had not been before. His focus seemed to burn his will into others in a way that brooked no argument. Where he had been careful, and gentle, though resolved as a Stark would be before, now he was truly commanding. 

It was as if all of his boyhood had bled out into the snow. Sir Davos hoped that they would set sale before Stannis returned, for he knew not what would happen when steel met fire.

 

Jon

Jon Snow did not know what to do with Jeyne Poole, and it vexed him. 

After he had awoken that day, three nights back in the snow, she had clung to him shamelessly. He thought that maybe, because of what Sir Davos had claimed about his parentage, she wanted to bed a prince. Or maybe that she was just frightened, and she wanted to take shelter in a man she knew. 

Either way he would not have it. 

When she had snuck into his chambers the night before last, to wake him with caresses, he could barely withhold his anger—which was surprising. He had not been an angry man, as far as he could remember…except maybe after Ygritte was killed, but now her advances infuriated him. Maybe it was because of how she had derided him when they were younger, but surely he would no longer cling to something as petty as that. Maybe his blood just boiled. 

The part of him that was irritated by any appeal to his baser instincts wanted to leave her in at the Wall, but his better judgement told him no. The men might try to take advantage of her, more so than they might have Gillie because Jayne was more beautiful and because if the Bastard of Bolton prevailed he would no doubt come to the wall for her. He would not leave the girl to be abused again, his chivalry won against his annoyance; thank the old gods.

Though he misliked the accusation that he was anyone but the Stark bastard, it did not change the fact that he was unburnt. He could not explain how, when he had received such a vicious burn on his hand when he first came to the Wall, he was now impervious to flame. He had tested it often since he returned from the dead, and it was true, his flesh never burned. So, in addition to going to Dragonstone to collect the dragon glass and commission more mining, he hoped to stop off in Oldtown and consult with Samwell. 

He longed to find Arya, but where those dark steps had been he did not know, and he was still thinking on how best to approach the Vale. 

“M’lord,” Jayne said as she knocked on the door of his solar.

“Come,” Jon said brusquely.

“Yes M’lord,” she said, bowing her head low, obviously still embarrassed that he had spurned her advances.

“Jayne,” he said trying to soften his demeanor. As much as she had frustrated him, he meant her no more torture than she had already endured at the hands of the Lanisters, and her new lord husband. “Look at me Jayne,” he said more softly. She peaked up from below her lashes shyly and he was disappointed in himself for noticing how comely she actually was. 

“M’lord?” She asked tentatively.

“When Sir Davos and I leave for Dragonstone you should come with us. It will not be safe for you at the wall.” He said more as a command than he had meant for it to be. 

“And… what shall I do for M’lord while—“

“Nothing,” He interrupted. “I will keep you safe as a member of my former household, and you will not be imposed upon.” She looked at him queerly. 

He had never claimed Eddard Stark’s household as his own. He had felt that he had no right to it, but now that his brothers were gone, and the house was in ruins he felt the need to protect his people. To claim his people. My people? He repeated the thought in his head, and it felt queer, but also right. “And you can call me Jon. You only ever called me Jon before, that, and bastard.” He said, the last words slipping from his lips unbidden.

“I am sorry M’lord, I—”

“Jon. And that was a lifetime ago, but I do not mean to see you suffering over courtesies, especially when we will be traveling together. I am no more your lord than you are my sister.”

“Thank you M’lord” she said with a sweet smile that made him worry that he must needs lock his bead cabin on deck.

“Now… can you tell me, as painful as it might be, how you came to be sent to the Boltons as Arya? What happened in Kings Landing? And do you have any idea what became of Sansa?”

“I was given to Lord Petyr Baelish after I was taken from Sansa’s quarters—before Lord Stark was murdered.” She said, her eyes quivering as she remembered.

“I saw them slay my father, and Septa Mordaine…. Sansa kept trying to reassure me that everything and everyone would be fine. She was such a foolish girl… Begging your pardon,” She said her eyes darting up to see if she had angered Jon again.

“Aye, she was always a bit too much of a romantic, but I am sure that the years have cured her of that now….” Even as he said it he thought of her wish to see him again and how much she must have romanticized the image of her only living brother. 

“Petyr… he took me to the brothel, to prepare me as a gift to the Boltons. This was before Lord Robb…. Before the Red Wedding… ” She said, trembling at the thought of it. “He thought to pass me off as the heir to Winterfell, to support the Boltons as Wardens of the North….”

“So this Baelish was in on the plans?” He asked, his blood growing hotter every moment. He thought on Sansa’s words, and the vague image of a face from a bird’s memory, and he knew that Baelish had her and his intentions were less than honorable.

“I miss her Jon, I miss Sansa… Silly as she was. I miss everyone from Winterfell…” her eyes began to shimmer. She left the heavy truth unspoken: that almost all of them were dead, neither of them could bear to say it aloud.

“Aye me as well,” he said patting her hand reassuringly.

“It was so terrible to be there with the Boltons—with my Lord husband…” She spat the words out.

“Do not think on it anymore my lady, we will make an end to him as soon as we can—mayhaps Stannis already has done the work for us. And in the meantime, I will bring you far away from his reach”.

 

Thormund

He and the other freefolk were set to collecting all of the wood that they could on the southern side of the wall. The blizzard that had been assaulting the North was far enough south that the Freefolk could handle the chill, but the crows were stuck inside, watching the wall, improving the masonry and readying to freeze the lower gates shut if needs be. 

Thormund was still in awe of the last week, of his friend dying, coming back to life and being called the child of kings. When Jon had awoken, dressed, and smoothed things over with his men, he brought Thormund and a band of the Freefolk into the haunted forest where he pointed out the bodies of his murderers. No one thought to call him warg now, they knew, so there was no point in the accusation. That he might also be a dragon was an unsettling thought. 

Still, he could not bring himself to mislike his friend, and so he would stay and support the plan. Many of those from Hardhome encouraged the other Freefolk to remain loyal—those who had been scared of the warm, undead crow commander. He had been the only one to come for them, and many believed he was their only hope. Maybe he was. Maybe that pretty boy was the only chance they had in the long night.

Alayne

Alayne had been surprised to see that there was a letter from the watch for Lord Robert, not to the Lord Protector of the Vale, but to the boy. Petyr had insisted that he read it, but after having flicked his eyes over the long message he sighed and handed it to her as if it were a trifle.

“How droll,” Petyr said with a smirk. “They speak of monsters and the walking dead, do read this to Lord Robert. He will fear it and go into fits, and then maybe he will die all the sooner.” His smirk widened. Sansa wanted to snatch the letter back and shout that he was a terrible man, and that as troublesome as the little lord Robert was, he did not deserve to be murdered. Alayne took the letter and nodded.

“Yes father,” and then he kissed her on the cheek as he always did. His hands wondering to her waist in an un-fatherly way for only a second. Thank the gods. She did not want to know how Petyr’s hands would wander once he did not have to keep up the pretext of being her father. She depended on him, for her safety, but she did not want him any more than she hand wanted Jofferey in the end. She wanted him even less than she had wanted Tyrion, if it were possible. 

Alayne looked over the letter, and thought that there was something queer about it—something more queer than the tales of the walking undead, and the pleas for more men, and dragon glass. The letter was in Jon’s hand, which she knew to be neat and steady, and yet there were capital letters in odd places. Maybe Petyr had thought that the bastard boy had not known how to write, but Sansa knew better. The message was simple, and it wasn’t addressed to her, but it made her heart jump all the same.

“Jayne with me. Arya alive. Stay safe,” It was all she could do to keep Sansa form bursting out, her heart swelled at the words of her brother. How did he know that I am here? She wondered, but she knew the message was meant for her. She wanted to giggle, or sing as she hugged the letter to her chest, but then the bastard reared her head. He did not say that he was coming for you. And in a moment her joy tasted like ashes and sorrow.

 

Jon

They had been aship for over a week, and he knew that Ghost misliked it, preserved meats were no proper fare for a direwolf. He did not much care for it himself, but he was eager to set foot in Dragonstone. Over eager. 

He had asked Sir Davos at table, if he could remember there being any histories or letters preserved from the Targaryen reign. Davos begged his pardon and said that he would not know, having been illiterate for most of his time there. He did, however, promise to take Jon to the library while the ten men they had brought with them loaded the dragon glass aboard. Jayne, for her part had been freer with him since he insisted she call him Jon and he almost regretted it. He knew she was sweet on him still, and the thought of Ygritte, and his promise to be hers still stung too much for him to think of any dalliances with his sisters’ former friend… and the wife of the man who stole Winterfell from his brother.

Jon opened his bleary eyes when he heard the door creaking opened. He could have sworn he had locked it, but there she was, in a shift, climbing over Ghost as he slept on the floor.

“Jayne” he said shortly, trying to hold his temper.

“Yes M’lord?” She asked gently, as if daring him to insist she call him Jon in such an intimate situation. He did not take the bait but she still sat on his bed at his side.

“Why are you here?” He asked, knowing the answer, but hoping the question might shame her back to her chambers as it had the first night she had attempted this on the wall.

“I’m lonely M’lord…” she said fiddling with her hands.

“I am not here to entertain you,” he said curtly sitting up and scooting a few inches away from her.

“Jon… M’lord… please… I would take comfort from you,” she said ever so sweetly, her cheeks flushed as she scooted closer to him. “You said that you will protect me, and I believe you, I am yours as you wish…” She said placing her hand on his lap and caressing the sheets over his thigh.

“I do not wish it Jayne, my heart belongs to another and—“

“They told me on the wall, but she is dead, and you did not stay dead to be with her…” She paused as if deciding to take another tact, “My body belongs to Winterfell.” She said softly. “That bastard claimed me in its name, but if I belong to Winterfell, then I belong to you,” she finished her fingers inching over to his manhood and caressing its growing shape with gentle fingers. 

His anger melted at her statement, but his blood was still hot. It had been long since he had shared a woman’s bed, and he had to admit that her company was sweet. And not just because she had reminded him of his youth and his family. As if she sensed his wavering resolve she made her move, and was on his lips before he could refuse her. Her lips were sweet and plump, and he found his hand at her soft sides before he had even thought of it. 

“Take me Jon, M’lord… My Prince,” she said between hot kisses, and somehow her words did not deter him, but spurred him on. Where he had been so angry before that she might be enamored with him over his supposed lineage, now that she had said it, it made him hot. 

He pushed her down onto the bed, only removing his lips from hers to slip her shift over her head. She was not wearing any smallclothes, and he touched her milky white stink greedily, surprised by his own desire. 

She squealed as he kissed her neck and slid his fingers into her slickness, stretching and teasing her. She tugged at his smallclothes, the only clothes he had been wearing when she had entered, and took him into her hand, stroking him even as he sought to give her pleasure. 

“I want you inside me Jon, your grace,” she panted, and he would not deny her request. He eased himself into her gently, still kissing at her neck and fisting her dark black hair.

He had not known how much he needed her, but when he was inside her he found himself shaky and filled with an ardent desire. He increased his speed, and kissed his way up to her ear. 

He brushed her hair back out of her face, but when he looked into her eyes they were not the grey that he had thought he would see, they were Tully blue. Jon gasped as she smiled at him, but the shock did not quell his desire, it only stoked it. Seeing her face only doubled his need to spill his seed insider her. 

“Jon,” she moaned, her voice a jolt to his cock. “my prince,” she moaned and he kissed her hard, rutting into her and groaning her name as he spilled himself into her womb. He hoped, with all his will that it would take root inside her.

“Sansa,” he said, and then he realized he was awake. 

Jon looked around his dark quarters and saw that he was alone, expect for Ghost   
sleeping at the foot of the bed. He was ashamed to find himself hard, and weeping. He cursed. Maybe coming back from the dead had made a monster of him. He shook his head, unsettled by the desire he had felt at being called lord, and prince, and grace. 

Unsettled that he had dreamt of Jayne and Sansa both. But his dream had been right, as much as he had loved Ygritte, he had refused to die and be with her. His heart and mind where in turmoil as he turned over to return to sleep. He felt sickened and confused by his desires, and the pangs of guilt they brought for so many reasons. To make things worse, he knew that he would find no solace in wolf dreams for a fortnight yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!  
> Any questions or comments are appreciated.  
> No flames please. ~_~


End file.
